Sleepwalker Nation
by Elementalist
Summary: It's happened. The infection has spread. Everyone's dead. Only a few survive, protected by the thin, chain-link barrier around the town, who have to witness the constant struggle of the Grey trying to get them. To eat them. To infect them too. . .
1. Genesis

The first time was a joke.  
The second time, _this _time, no one's laughing now.  
Hell, we've all forgotten how.

"Fuck!" There's a sodden _thump _to my left and I turn to look. A half-buried can sticks out from the snowmelt mud-too valuable to be there, sinking. Kenny, the offender, stoops to pick it back up at the signal of my look. Brown streaks his orange parka as he shines the tin with the old cloth. "Sorry, man-I wasn't even thinking."

In case you're wondering, it's just a can of green beans. Yeah, _green beans._ But, when supplies are low, a can of green beans is a meal more between you and starvation. And, besides, we had to fucking fight for that as it was. Our stores are nearly empty with everything except dust and cigarettes.

I shrug. Turn back to the fence. Regard the fingers poking through the chain-link and the _clink-clink-clink_ of teeth gnawing on the thin, woven wire. "Whatever, dude," I say back, absent-mindedly adjusting the heavy belt around my waist. "Just don't fucking lose it. That's one of our suppers tonight. . ."

He looks at me like he's waiting for me to say something else. When I don't, he tosses the tin back in his pack with a shrug of his own. "Right, sorry." He adjusts his belt too, and the bag on his back rustles, half-empty, between his shoulder blades.

The fence lurches. A quick glance is all it gets before we head on down the dirt path, our heavy boots scuffing it a little deeper with each step.

* * *

Familiar faces are the hardest.  
To see. To remember. _To shoot_.  
We learned, out of necessity, not to care anymore.

It's not that hard, not if you don't remember them while you're pumping them heavy with iron. If you don't know who they are, you don't care. If you ignore who they are, the pain will sink in later, when you're feeling safer that another one is down. And then the guilt, because you just stuck your little sister in the forehead with a razor-sharpened knife, watched as her scalp split between her pigtails-ones you helped her put in Before-and her die again, one last time.

They're the Grey, the Reanimated, the Bewitched, the Soulless, the horde of mother-fucking _Zombies _trying to get you from the other side of the flimsy protection of fence-wire. . .

But you try telling yourself that when you see your mom there, shambling with the rest of the town, fingers broken, mouth preoccupied with moaning whenever she's not found an unlucky soul to tear into (and apart). You try remembering the good times Before, when he was your best friend and didn't want you for the meat on your bones, but for you to just sit there and half-ass listen as he bitched about his girlfriend's drama. You try to keep that gun steady as you're hooking back that trigger.

Go on. Or die trying.

* * *

You're probably wondering how it all happened, huh. How the entire town of South Park turned into a mass of undead. Well, join the rest of the fucking world, 'cause we-the thirty or so of us uninfected-don't know either.

Except one thing: it came from the west.

Randy Marsh thinks it came in our burgers, mad-cow disease that just broke down the human mind until they turned into the blood-hungry monsters that hunt us. Cartman thinks it came on the wind, some government thing gone way too wrong-it was supposed to be a closed test, but one or all of the subjects, those infected fuckers, got out, spread what they had to other people and caused everyone to get sick and die. Tweek thinks it came in our water; Wendy thinks it was a mutation sparked by all the chemicals used in our pre-packaged food; Mr. Stotch thinks we're just cursed.

Whatever it was, it turned our friends and family into the creatures on the other side of the fences. It made them want to eat us, to kill us. . .to infect us too.

* * *

We circle the fence six times.  
One. Two. Skip a few.  
Ignore the faces grinning as you go.

We only had to stop once, to mend a snapped wire whole again. Can't risk a weak spot, even one so small, not in these times. It fixed real quick though and we went back to town with all our limbs-

-and our humanity.

Orange stars led the way like the street lamps lined the path to home Before.

* * *

We all camp out around Town Hall.  
Where fires burn continually.  
Welcome Home signals if we make it back. . .

. . .alive.

Smoke burns my nostrils as Kenny and I cut through town to get to the Hall-the scents of decay always linger, but just above that is the stench of boiling laundry and metal, intermingled with the constant smoke. It keeps away the bugs; it lures the nastier things to strain even more against the barrier. We need heat, though. And purified water. And a way to heat up our cans of vegetables or soup. So the flames are always burning, always tended by the careful hands of Mrs. Marsh and Mrs. Tweak. Night and day, noon to noon.

A few faces smile at our return-Kevin grins at his brother and Stan and Kyle look up from their meager meals to wave him over. I get ditched. My dismissal is my food passed into my waiting hand and a simple "See ya, Craig." I don't mind. I have other people I'd rather sit with.

I get less smiles than Kenny, if you'd like to know. Just a couple, one from Mrs. Marsh (who smiles with relief every time one of us comes home, so that probably shouldn't count) and one from Tweek (who smiles with the same relief-well, almost).

The latter moves to greet me.

He stands up, nervously dusting off his jeans and touching each of his pockets to make sure he hasn't lost or dropped anything, and walks over to me. "H-h-hey." It's all that's said between us before he throws his arms around me and pulls me in close.

South Park gives us a few stares-'what about repopulating the world?' stares that neither me or Tweek can ignore. We pull back just quick enough to make the hug seem normal and chaste, though I deliberately graze my fingers across the knuckles of his leather-bond hands as we draw apart. I see his espresso eyes brighten and know he'll relish in that extra touch all night-up until my next rounds, six hours from now, when he'll fret about my well-being as long as I'm out of sight. No one else seems to notice.

He leads me back to his set-up-a small tent pitched up near a smaller ring of fire, one he chooses to care for himself. It's extra work, finding fuel to burn and being close enough to feed the flame when it wilts in hunger, but he manages. Probably from the help his mother offers him when he's gone, gathering up supplies for the rest of the survivors. I've seen her rake away the ashes and add new chair legs, still glossy with youth, into the dying hearth to maintain her son's fire, to keep it burning.

She told me once she thinks it helps him cope with what was happening beyond the fence. That that orange glow, and the heat and smokey-stench, helped him ignore the hungry moans of the Grey shuffling around our broken city.

"It's his hope," she whispered to me, a tarnished shutter dropping from her fingers on to the dimming embers, weeks ago. "As long as his fire goes, he'll go." Since then, I've helped keep it lit too-every now and then, when no one is paying attention, I'll chuck a few fistfuls of twigs and sticks I picked up during my rounds around the fence.

Seeing it comforts me; sitting next to it warms the death-chill in my skin and bones. Tweek sinks down beside me, close but not too close and forces himself to watch his hope burning at his boots. We really watch each other, in the corners of our eyes. That's why when he smiles, a twitch up of his chapped lips, I copy the action almost immediately.

"U-um. . .How-h-how was it? T-today, I-I mean. Any-"

I shake my head, the question murdered before it has a chance to be completed. "No. Not any better at all."

His smile wilts and he looks sick, sick that he even brought it up again. But, I know he'll repeat the question every day when I come back-and every day I'll cut him off before he can whisper it out into the air and ignite it with that unlikely possibility.

I want to reach out to touch his hand, to offer him some forbidden comfort-but I can't. We're being watched, in fleeting glances, by the rest of the town. Only Mrs. Tweak's and Kenny's and Kyle's stares are soft with understanding. The other pairs of eyes are hard. _We have a duty_, they scream, _Don't forget what we have to rebuild._

I shove my hand in my pocket. Face the fire. Face the heat. I can't look at him and he can't look at me.

And it kills us both.

* * *

End, Chapter one.

I've had this idea for a while, this world of struggle and survival in the South Park universe and finally decided to pluck it from my brain and smear it down for you to view. In perfect time for Halloween, no?

I'm debating whether or not I should post this. . ._yet_. I don't have much too it and, like my Kenny fic and my Dip fic that are underwraps, I probably should wait to finish it to post it. . .

Well, fuck that. I want to see what everyone thinks.

Just don't expect updates left and right. I have another chapter ready and will have the third one completed soon. So, be patient. Be patient.

And, lastly, I hope you enjoyed this. It seems to be getting good reviews from my close friends HeBes and MotCn. Maybe it'll be enough to snag your good reviews too?

Till next time.

-Ele.

P.S. - oh, yes. You caught that didn't you? That _Forest of Hands and Teeth_ influence. Good job. I'm both proud and totally in love with you.


	2. Melancholia

Ring-around-the-rosy.  
Pockets stuffed with posy.  
How come the world reeks of ash?

It's normal, I assure you, that I haunted Tweek's side for the remainder of my six-hour rest time. We spoke little, touched even less (only secret touches passed with extreme caution). When he grew hungry, I heated up my can of green beans on the hot ashes freshly dug from his fire and he stuck a metal thermos of instant-coffee next to it; we split both. When I got tired after watching the fire for a while, I laid down where I sat; I fell asleep with my face blistering hot and my skin erected in goose bumps, but feeling safer than I had all day. I woke up with Tweek's ratty duvet cast over me, hot and sweaty beneath the heat-retaining material.

Tweek hadn't moved, except to make a new pot of coffee. I could smell it, fresh, over the ash and soot and knew, as Tweek poured me a lid-full, that he'd brewed it especially for me, for _now_, as I scooted up and scrubbed sleep-grit from my eyes.

"H-h-here." He passed me the lid, steam curling its fingers in the dark air, beckoning my hand closer. I reached over, touched his hand instead of the make-shift cup.

Big mistake.

The sudden, unexpected touch startled him. His hand flew back-the lid graced the sky with an elegant arc-the precious coffee soaked the thirsty ash, gone, forever-Tweek yelped, loud.  
The camp was a rustle of noise.

Guns rattled their metal skeletons, stretching before the next kill. Knives rang out from scabbards and up from their dirt beds. Then the people sounds came-footfalls, shouts, sleepy grunts.

Somewhere beyond the safety of the fire-light, the fences groaned to life and the countless voices beyond that moaned out their concern-for their hunger. The town had burst to life-near and far-from one simple cry.

One everyone recognized.

Kyle was there first, gun drawn and poised to fire. He did a quick, sweeping look, then lowered his weapon to his side when he saw nothing but two comrades sharing the ground. "What the hell happened?"

I took the task of explaining-"I scared him"-though I'm not much for doing that. Kyle fixed me with a stare, a soft one, and he even smiled. Or was that just a play of the shadows?

"Oh. Well, don't, man. You'll've scared the entire town up." Which I had. By accident. I repeated those two words at him and he jerked up his shoulders, smile gone and his face set into something more grim. "I know. . .But you know how Mr. Stotch will be. . ."

He showed up next, as if summoned by his name. Both of his hands held a gun. "Craig? Tweek? Report. Was there a breach? Are you hurt?" He looked at us expectantly-_where's the fire_?

Butters next, carting a gun of his own, of similar weight and make of his father's. Then Stan, Ike, and Wendy, carrying their own assortment of weapons. Mrs. Marsh appeared with an axe; Randy showed up with a broken guitar neck. The rest of the girls hovered near the back of the group, clustered together like clucking hens; the Goth kids, all four of them, looked at them from a few fire-pits over-they hadn't jumped up at all and barely even looked concerned.

"_Report_."

I looked back up to Mr. Stotch, at his guns, then at his son who shook on top his quivering shadow, then to Tweek. He sat frozen, eyes glassy with self-shame. He'd ruined the hidden moment between us, had scared it off with a scream.

I had to turn my gaze and force my tongue to explain.

Mr. Stotch wasn't impressed, to say the least. Causing an uproar in the early hours of the morning was unforgivable-we'd disturbed sleep and hearts and stomachs. We'd amplified the moans. Now no one would get to sleep again. Not until the next dusk.

We were punished. Everyone voted for it (expect Kenny and Kyle and Mrs. Tweek, obviously). Tweek was sentenced to fetching more wood pieces from the outer-ring houses, the ones that had the fence cutting through their backyards. Then, if that wasn't enough to bring on his customary shakes and jitters, he had to patrol the fence, 14 laps, after dusk.

I thought he was going to cry.

My punishment seem less severe-after all,_ I_ wasn't the one who screamed out. All I had to do was go do my laps around the fence two hours earlier and stay three hours later. My partner would be exchanged so Kenny didn't have to suffer with me.

"Fine," I said. Because I didn't give a shit, really. But, my defiance came out in that one syllable and Mr. Stotch heard it like metal chimes in a gale.

"Also-" He pointed between us two with a sharply-accurate finger. "-you two are _forbidden_ to see each other unless necessary, understood? We'll say for a week, now, but that'll be under consideration. We can't have something like _this _happening again."

_Blam! Blam_!

Our tiny, happy bubbles burst.

* * *

The coffee went cold.  
I went cold. Tweek went cold.  
His fire still burned.

I complained to Kenny in three words: "This. Fucking. Sucks."

And it did. But, I'm not going to complain, not really, because it could be fucking worse. That's something you learn pretty quick now-a-days—it could always be worse.

For Kenny's credit, he's trying to make me feel better, in the best way he knows how. By talking. By telling me jokes that could make me laugh Before. By keeping me distracted enough to not notice the time coasting by or the constant moans pelted at us. To help me not dwell on getting back to camp.

All-in-all, it does help. A little. But I don't laugh, I don't smile, and I don't forget. I can't do any of those things. Not now. Not since it all started.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Okay, I hate how is formatted. I mean, come _on_! Why can't we have the spaces between paragraphs more that just double-spaced? They do in real books-and in any other place besides. /grumbles Anyway, so, from here on out, each chapter will be one 'part' (how I write it, I don't have 'chapters', just different parts separated by a page-break symbol), unless, like this, there's a really short part, which I'll mush them together. Cool. Thnx. Bye. Haha.

That'll just mean more chapters!

Also, Happy Halloween! Favorite holiday, hands down. Anyone get some great candy?

Want to share?

-Ele.


	3. Cadaverous

Pause. Rewind.  
Now press play.  
Don't you dare look away.

I killed my little sister. I cut off one of my father's arms. I made my mother swallow the sharp edge of my knife. I survived, which is worse than all that. I'm alive. I'm alive.

It all started eight months ago. In February. Sometime after Valentine's Day.

I remember because of the pink and red streamers, older now and ragged, still pinned up in the gym of the High School.

There was to be a dance. That night. That's why there were decorations. Bright pinks, in the form of roses, balloons, streamers and vibrant reds, as duplicates, bathed our entire school with this gaudy misinterpretation of 'love'. Cupids and cherubs still smile down at us whenever we venture into the school to steal firewood and bandages, and pick through the storage for what little food remains.

I had a date. Though, really, I didn't even want to fucking go. I'm not one for dances or stupid parties or anything like that. But she asked. And I had no real reason to tell her no. So, I went, with her on my arm, and pretty much ignored her the entire night.

I sat on one of the fold-out chairs circling the gym floor; she went off to gossip with her friends. She'd come with Craig Tucker. She felt even more popular 'cause I'd accepted to give her a ride in my beat up truck and dance with her once, maybe twice. Whatever.

Anyway, it's not like she really had enough time to feel jilted about being ignored. She got sick that night and had to leave.

You're probably wondering who she is. But it doesn't matter. She's on the other side of the fence now-she doesn't have a name anymore.

A lot of people got sick. They all left. And every last one of them died the following morning.

One was my best friend. I never got to. . .Well, you know. Say goodbye or whatever. Not like I could really have, seeing as we didn't really know what was going on. Another was my sister. My mom. My dad. I don't know why I didn't get sick. But I didn't.

Instead, I got to watch everyone wither away.

I sat by my sister's bed that night, when I came home, still dressed up to go out. I held her hand as the disease leeched away her heat, the light behind her eyes. I watched her skin turn the grey of _them_. . .

I didn't leave her until she slept.

Then, after I was sure she wouldn't wake up, I crept downstairs, got the biggest, sharpest knife we had in the kitchen. . .then went back up.

The knife went through like her skull was made of butter-soft and slippery quick. She didn't make a sound as I did it. . .but, at one point, when I hit a creaky board next to her bed, she looked up at me. Her eyes were black with infection.

Even with three inches of steel implanted in her brain, she still had the ability to watch me as I killed her.

She didn't bleed.

All her blood had congealed; her heart no longer pulsed with the electronic rhythm of its beating.

She was dead, _she had been dead_. For hours, at the most-minutes at the least. She wasn't my little sister anymore.

I had that thought, then swallowed it, _choked _on it, seconds later when she reached up, grabbed the stiff fabric of my shirt and _tugged_. Every one of her nails, long and painted a sparkling pink, bent back from her fingers, flimsy as paper cranes, and fell to the floor.

Then came her moans. Heavy, aching in her throat with the _need _to bite me, to infect me. To _kill _me.

I jerked my shaking hand down.

The knife struck her spinal cord, severed it, made her no different than she had been. Except, now, she was headless. Except now, she couldn't spread the infection to me. Except now, she was still.

When I withdrew the knife, a sticky black dripped from it-her blood, her brain matter-and painted the floor like Indian Ink. I retched. I trembled. I ran.

If you were smart, you would have too.

* * *

**A/N**: Happy Halloween again, oh yes, spoils for my lovelies. There'll be another chapter posted up later tonight. I could post it now, but I'm lazy. Sorry, sorry.

I hope you're loving this as much as I am writing it. Poor Craig. I feel bad for him, being an orphan and all now.

Question of the day: Could you kill your sibling-mother-father-grandparent-cousin if they had turned and were trying to infect you too?

Til later,

-Ele.


	4. Eagre

Stop. Again. Rewind.  
There's a story within a story,  
If you read between the lines.

Ironically, that was also the best night of my life.

Despite the sickness.

Despite all the death.

It started back at that dance, the one I did little more than observe at. The one that everyone left prematurely. The one, that one rare one, that Tweek had actually shown up at.

He stayed in the shadows. Away from the lights. Away from the music. Away from the confrontation of people. In his own niche. Why did he come at all?

I wondered that. I watched him and wondered a lot of other things-every one of them unspoken and unheard.

I threw a glance at my date, saw her still caught up in some loose-lipped story, and eased myself up from my chair. The gloss of the gym floor squeaked under my dress shoes. The rustle of skirts and cologne clouds pushed me along, past the twisted throb of limbs, past the obviously spiked punch, past the metal chairs, one by one, until I met an empty one. Next to Tweek. To his shaky left.

I sat. He jerked. We shared a look for a moment before Tweek stole it, tucked it down deep and kept it for himself. I bet, even now, he still takes it out sometimes and presents it to his fire, pilfers its glow so he can see that one stolen moment in varying hues of red, orange, and sultry yellows.

It's always been there, this undertow of feeling between us, flowing like a river swollen with snowmelt. Consuming us. Drowning us.

We both learned to just skim the waters, terrified that the other wasn't swimming in that same flow-that he was alone in the submersion.

I broke the ice between us first and, coincidentally, I breeched the waters first too, later that same night.

"Having fun?" My voice barely cut up above the bass-line heartbeat of the dance music. But he heard. I bet I could've whispered those words out a mile away and he'd still have plucked them from the air.

His reply was a quick shake of his head. No. He was not having fun. He didn't want to be here. Home called to him through the pores of brick and drywall. _Safety _screamed for him to come back.

I read it on his face, his terror of being outside, his fear of the rumors leaking in the atmosphere. He didn't want to face it. None of us did. The horror of the infection, the rising dead, rang fresh in our ears. The fact that we all might be _next_.

I didn't think about it, I reached over and took his hand. Held it limply. For a moment. Another stolen one-that _I_ kept for myself. Tweek wanted it-I read that story in his eyes too-but I felt selfish and wanted something for my own.

We left not long after I released his hand, following some silent want between us to steal away into the dark, pooling shadows underneath the outside bleachers.

Alone, we both became fearless. Alone, we paddled over our current of attraction, towards each other, and touched lips.

We pulled away gasping for air. He touched his lips; I licked his taste off mine. Then we met again, crushing the swells of our mouths together, our hands jerking out to touch forbidden skin.

Minutes later-for we couldn't risk it, even then, to exchange promises with our tongues in the silence under the metal-frame work-we descended back inside, walking with little air between us, and saw the leftovers of the party. Shambling to the music. Looking dead with fear.

Everyone in that gym, who didn't go home that night, would be the only ones to see the sun the next morning-and be conscious of its shine.

Our best night had turned, twisted, _bent _in to the worst night in either of our memories. And we both got sucked in, caught by that undertow coursing between us, and drowned in the waters of that prohibited pull.

* * *

**A/N:** The promised fourth chapter, for you, my dearest readers. Are you hooked yet? Have I infected you with love for this story?

God, I hope all those answers are yes.

I don't know when the next chapter'll be up. Probably not for a while. I'll have to squeeze writing this in between writing the draft for my Nanowrimo story.

Anyone else doing it?

My name's Crimin on there, on the nanowrimo site that is, if you want to add me and follow my progress.

Let's go, Wrimo's!

Love you all. See you next time.

-Ele.

Oh! And have a safe/happy halloween!

Who else is going to wal-mart tonight after midnight to buy half-priced candy? -raises hand- 


End file.
